


Owls

by iloveeverythingwaytoomuch, lusilly



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Civil War, Gen, Goodnight Had Family in the North, Origin Story, Owls, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 09:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8322106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveeverythingwaytoomuch/pseuds/iloveeverythingwaytoomuch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lusilly/pseuds/lusilly
Summary: They called him Angel not for his talent on the battlefield, but for his propensity towards unsettled spirits, for the reluctant psychopomp he made for the dead.Or: Goodnight Robicheaux has a sister who married a Northern man.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written by my dear sister Emily, @iloveeverythingwaytoomuch. I just edited it!

            Goodnight Robicheaux had not seen his nephew in nearly five years. Over half of that had been war, at which, he found, he was devastatingly good. He’d shot with his father – he’d even entertained the vain prospect that he had some marginal talent at times. But nothing could have prepared him for the villainy of battle. The thrill of a target hit and the sinking realization that he had ended a man’s life violently, cut it short right out of his prime. Reload, aim, fire. You have to hate a thing to kill it, Goodnight learned. And God be damned, Goodnight Robicheaux _hated_ those Union Yanks, and the hatred turned over and over in the pit of his stomach, turning his gut sick, full of writhing snakes.

            Yet no matter how many men fell on the battlefield, neither side was anywhere near what one could generously call _winning_. It was just killing. As he kept the high ground, taking aim at Union soldiers below him, he imagined he could recognize each and every face – surely he had met this man when he visited his youngest sister in Maryland, certainly he had once heard about this soldier in letters from his other sister’s family, his beloved brother-in-law, and their beautiful son.

            One night in the post-battle haze, he saw her. He was wandering through the infirmary, terrible as it was, searching for a private with whom he’d once shared mutual comfort, hoping against reason that the man had not perished in the day’s fighting. It was then that he recognized a woman tending to a weeping soldier some cots away. His heart fell still, refusing to beat as he stumbled past the beds, ignorant of everything around him except for his sister’s face – he called her name, _Eve – Eve!_ , but she must not have heard. She continued to speak quietly to the wounded man, trying in vain to calm his crying. Soft whispers of her voice floated towards Goodnight like a familiar perfume. Overcome, he rushed to her side, dragging the woman up from tending the soldier’s wounds.

            The woman stared at him. He staggered back away from her and looked around, so sure that he had seen Eve. The woman asked if he was injured, or if he needed assistance of any kind. Goodnight recovered his senses, his heart suddenly racing. He tipped his hat. He lied. “My mistake, young lady. Your resemblance to my sister is uncanny.”

            The woman looked nothing like Eve, fair, fiery Eve, with hair as red as the sky at sunset. This woman had long black hair and dark eyes. Her skin was tan from searching in the fields. Only a blind man would mistake one woman for the other.

            Cautiously, the woman’s gaze slipped away from Goodnight, and back to the wounded young soldier. “I’ll bring more bandages, Mister Faraday,” Goodie heard her whisper, as he staggered towards the entrance of the tented infirmary.

            It was not long before he started seeing others. His mother, solemnly standing in a field of dead soldiers, her white hair flowing in the wind like a waving flag. Her pale eyes watched his every move, every pull of his trigger. A white owl perched on one of her thin shoulders; a brown owl perched delicately on the other. As she stared at him, the head of both those frightening owls swiveled around to watch him as well, with preternatural intelligence in their eyes. It sent a chill wracking down his spine. His mother had been dead near twenty years.

            His younger sister began to demand his attention at night. This, he did not mind terribly. How could he? He used to tell her stories to help her sleep, and now she had come to return the favor. Nights passed with her lips whispering at his ear. The tales became gruesome, and cruel, retelling the histories of the men he’d killed, whispering to him precisely how long it had taken them to die, how much agony they had suffered, the families they left behind. Like his mother, a bird followed his sister as well. “ _Who?_ ” The owl asked, and his sister would answer; each night she came to him, forced him to look into her eyes and told him of a life he had ripped violently from this earthly plane. His father, whose reverent obituary had been sent to the field a little over a year ago, followed him through camp for a whole week. The screech of a midnight owl screamed in Goodie's ears, blaring so loudly he could not hear the cries of the wounded. He had done his best to ignore the old man, but his unsteady hands and excited nature were beginning to draw attention from his fellow officers.

            So when Goodnight Robicheaux saw a young man – a boy, really – who resembled his nephew so much it caused him to rub his eyes in awe – when Goodnight saw this child standing across the battlefield in navy blue, he came to the only conclusion he could: this was a sign. The man before him could not be his actual nephew: he had sent letter after letter to his sister warning her, telling her to keep her son far away from the war. It would only invite death into their home.

            The young man lifted his musket. A bird appeared on his shoulder, as if steadying his aim. Goodnight finally understood now. The violence of war had warped his brain. The souls of the dead called out to him through visions of his family. He made a decision. This was going to be the last apparition to trouble his good mind.

            Someone shouted Goodnight’s name, demanding that he raise his weapon, inquiring furiously why his firearm rested uselessly by his side. He felt hollow as he lifted his gun. He pointed it at the bird.

            Without warning, the damn thing came at him, a massive creature of black eyes and sharp beak and feathers. The battlefield closed between them – he was left with half a moment before the bird was too close. Goodnight took a steady breath. The sounds of battle fell silent, muted by the blood pumping in his ears. Slowly, knowing he could not miss, he squeezed the trigger.

            Then it was gone.

            Everyone was gone. The field was silent except for the final noises of dying men. He looked around and found himself to be the only uninjured man on a field soaked with blood. He swallowed hard, unable to bear the sight. The battle had ended, but the war would go on. This, he knew.

            Carefully, Goodnight stepped over his fallen comrades, flinching ever so slightly at the squelching sound his boots made in the wet grass.

            Finally, he reached the young man. “ _The life you stole_ ,” his youngest sister whispered in his ear, her touch light as a feather, wisping across his shoulders. In the clarity of death, the boy still resembled his nephew so deeply it sent chills down Goodnight’s spine. He knelt down over the man, searched for his pockets, for some indication of where the boy had come from, that he may inform a widow or a grieving mother of her boy’s fate.

            As he searched the body, a sinking feeling tugged at his insides, pulling him down into an abyss from which he was not sure he could rise. All at once, his senses returned and he was struck by how loud the sounds of death were. His mother wept to his right. His father’s owl screamed to his left. His hands and the knees of his uniform were drenched in blood.

            A rasping breath pulled Goodnight’s attention to the boy before him. He sucked in breath, but did not move. His eyes stayed closed. He looked peaceful.

            With an impossible display of will, the boy pulled his hand towards his chest, placing it upon his bullet-ridden uniform. “Yes?” whispered Goodnight, his eyes searching the boy’s face for some brief indication of forgiveness.

            “Could you…” A cough ripped through the boy’s chest. Blood sprayed from the holes in his lungs.

            Goodnight did not notice. “What do you need?” he asked, beseeching the boy, as if he could impart redemption with his dying breath. He grasped the boy’s hand. “What can I do, son?”

            He was so young to die like this. And so many young men were dying on the battlefield today. Goodnight had only the ability to comfort but one.

            In reply, the boy simply patted his left breast and wheezed, and then gasped no more.

            Goodnight held the boy’s hand as the last of life left his body. As had been the child’s dying request, Goodnight then gingerly searched the boy’s breast pocket. Inside was a letter.

            It was saturated with blood. Goodnight was certain it would be unreadable, but as he turned it over in his hands, his own blood ran cold in his veins. Someone had sealed this letter with the grandiose crest of the New Orleans Robicheauxes.

            His eyes returned to the boy’s face. _It can’t be_.

            With trembling hands, he tore open the letter.

\---

            Goodnight Robicheaux had not seen his nephew in nearly five years. The last time he had seen him he’d been thirteen – no, twelve. Not yet a man. Not yet fighting age.

\---

            Most of the ink had bled, like all else in war, and swirled together into unrecognizable shapes in the crimson liquid. But Goodnight could make out a few sentences here and there, the addressee to whom the letter was written, and the signature at the bottom of the page.

            _My dearest Goodnight_ ,

            It spoke of a Union draft. It spoke of a senseless war. It spoke of betrayal, and it asked, in his sister’s voice, that Goodnight keep her son safe and that she hoped he would receive this letter and write back to her with a letter given to the boy, her son.

            _Sincerely your loving sister,_

_Eve Stuart_

\---

            That night he rode West and never looked back.


End file.
